


Friendly Fire

by Topicabo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mild Language, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 18:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9338204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topicabo/pseuds/Topicabo
Summary: It's the things you don't mean to say that often hurt the most.(Note: This is a repost of chapter 9 from my November Mystrade work)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I still reel over the fact I completed November Mystrade. I go over it every so often. I never feel like I'm one of those people who can write quickly without the quality of the story suffering for it, but there are many of the chapters that I felt came out quite well considering the speed at which I wrote them. So much so that there are a few that I wanted a chance to give their own chance to shine so to speak, as they might not get noticed as well buried in a collection. And if I was going to chose one, I feel Friendly Fire resonates the most with me.

Greg started from his place on the couch when the door to Mycroft’s flat slammed. He was on his feet the next instant at the sound of something colliding violently against a hard surface. Dashing out into the main foyer, he first caught sight of a black umbrella lying on the ground near the staircase. Mycroft stood on the landing not too far away, his fists clenched so tightly that the leather of his gloves was creaking from the pressure.

 

“Myc?”

 

Mycroft’s eyes snapped to Greg’s face, barely restrained fury burning in his gaze. It took a disconcertingly long moment before recognition flickered through his expression. “Gregory.”

 

“What’s wrong?” Greg asked, stepping closer.

 

Mycroft looked away, stiffly unfolding his fingers. “He’s been using again,” he said gruffly, as though the words were shards of glass on his tongue.

 

It wasn’t necessary for Mycroft to clarify who he meant. Disbelief shocked Greg’s system, making his core feel numb. “What? Since when?”

 

“Shortly after he returned to London, I imagine,” Mycroft said. He gave a mirthless chuckle as he yanked off his gloves and tossed them on the table by the door. “It’s a much simpler matter now that Dr. Watson is not living with him. He didn’t even attempt to hide it from me. Not that he could have.”

 

Greg’s shoulders sagged, disappointment churning in his stomach. “Fucking hell. How bad is it?”

 

“Oh, he’s quite confident of his restraint this time around. But he always is, isn’t he?” Mycroft smiled while he spoke, the effort so strained that his mouth seemed like it might fracture along its edges. Internal warning bells began going off in Greg’s head as he noticed little tremors running through Mycroft’s fingers.

 

“Okay. Okay, let’s just take a moment, all right? We’ll figure this out.”

 

Mycroft scoffed even as he grimaced and pressed his fingers to his temple. “How I envy your naiveté, Gregory. Life must be so much easier that way.”

 

Greg bristled ever so slightly at the condescension in Mycroft’s tone, but luckily he cared little about his pride at the moment. “Trust me, I get how upset you must be, but-“

 

“You know NOTHING,” Mycroft said, disdain etched in his face. Greg’s uneasiness grew as Mycroft appeared to be getting more and more out of breath with each passing second. “I had allowed myself some measure of hope for Sherlock due to Dr. Watson’s positive influence on him, but now that John has left-“

 

“It’s not as though John is out of Sherlock’s life! He still cares about him, and so do I!”

 

“Yes, because `caring` has accomplished so much up until this point,” Mycroft sneered.

 

“You know it has! Sherlock is light years from where he was when I first met him. This isn’t some derailment of that progress, Myc; it’s just a setback. We’ll talk to him. John and I both will.”

 

Mycroft gave a harsh laugh. “You forget, Gregory, I have tried and failed to turn Sherlock from this path for twelve years, and in your limited tenure as his caretaker you have fared no better. Or haven’t you realized that by now?” he asked, his voice increasing in volume. He was visibly shaking now, though he barely seemed aware of it. Greg could recognize an impending crash when he saw it. He raised his hands in front of his chest, speaking as gingerly as he could.

 

“Myc, stop. You need to calm down.“

 

“Do not speak to me as though I were a child! Your good intentions amount to little more than wishful thinking, and I will not gamble my brother’s life on them! So unless you have something of substance to contribute, just what good are you to me?!”

 

The ensuing silence was a terrible, almost physical thing pressing down on them. Greg opened his mouth to speak, but it felt like the wind had been slapped from his lungs. Mycroft’s expression was devoid of sympathy, of the warmth that Greg had come to love him for.

 

Then Mycroft’s eyes widened, the coldness suddenly dissolving into shock. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” The colour drained from his face as he took an unsteady step towards Greg. “Gregory, that was- Please, I didn’t mean-“

 

Greg saw the exact moment when Mycroft broke. He launched himself forward and caught Mycroft just as the man’s legs crumpled underneath him. Mycroft sagged in his arms, his breathing quickening into erratic, shallow gasps. Greg lowered them both to the ground and pulled Mycroft against his chest.

 

“G-Gregory, I can’t-“

 

“Don’t talk. I need you to focus on me now. You feel how I’m breathing? Try and copy that. Nice and slow, Myc.”

 

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut, pushing his face against Greg’s chest. His body shook in its efforts to obey the previous request. Little by little, his shudders reduced to something less severe, his breathing still harsh but much more consistent.

 

“Good. That’s good, Myc. You’re doing great. Just breathe for me.”

 

Mycroft grabbed onto the front of Greg’s shirt, his fingers twisting the cloth into a tight clump. A quiet, ragged sob cracked in his throat.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”

 

“I know. I know you’re just scared for him. And believe me, I know it’s bloody frustrating to be back in this situation again. But you gotta remember you’re not alone in this, okay? John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and me; we all care about that stupid sod.” Greg shifted Mycroft to a more comfortable position against him, relieved that his breathing was slowly evening out. “We’re not worrying about this anymore tonight. Tomorrow, I’m going over there to be the first in line to kick his sorry arse in. And if that doesn’t convince him, we’ll try something else. I’m not gonna stop trying, alright?”

 

Mycroft nodded weakly. Avoiding eye contact, he sank against Greg’s body and sighed. He wouldn’t say much after that, but Greg just managed to catch his last words of the evening as they were whispered into the fabric of his jumper.

 

“Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story, much like the subject matter, is painful and wrenches at my chest a bit. I think it's cathartic as well. A kind of break that hurts, but ultimately one that you come back better from once everything gets sorted together again.
> 
> This is also most recent version, as I always tend to go back over my work and tweak spelling and grammar errors, plus tweaking at sentence structures that bug me. Not anything radically different, mind you.


End file.
